


heaven is where you are

by bukkunkun



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: ??? maybe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Declarations Of Love, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Monks, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Slow Romance, like we're talking maximum mushy here pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 16:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: The Mute found heaven on earth in the form of young Diarmuid. They fall in love.(this is just extremely romantic sex, I don't know what else to tell you.)





	heaven is where you are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkuuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkuuu/gifts).



> > yeah im fuckign watching it again because UGHGHHG HE'S SO PRETTY IN THIS FILM WTF [pic.twitter.com/pf1G7DgytS](https://t.co/pf1G7DgytS)
>> 
>> — 🌻 bukkun, MSc 🌟 beckfucker69 🔮 (@trickscd) [6 June 2019](https://twitter.com/trickscd/status/1136639050264109056?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)
> 
> you can watch me lose my mind over this film in the year of the lord 2019 up there in that linked thread
> 
> anyway helllo . ?? ? ? ? ?? ?? tom holland this is your fault ?? ? ? ? ? ? hi so i fell in love with one (1) real boy and now im cursed to see every single film he's in and frankly? ?? ? ? pilgrimage was wonderful and was so engaging, i loved it a lot. i'm glad i got to see it... 
> 
> everyone else on the tag was saying that the mute's name was hc'd as david so i agreed bc im uncreative anyway thank u fandom it actually suits him well
> 
> as a safety precaution, i kept diarmuid's age vague (therefore not needing the underage tag) but! i do call him 'boy' sometimes, but so did they in the film while diarmuid was clearly. a young adult at best lmao so! tread carefully if that bothers you.

To find heaven on Earth, they said, was the closest way one could find contentment. Warmth and love, in a place far away from God, a little piece of the soul’s salvation in the land of punishment that was the waking, living world.

When the Mute washed up on the shores with nothing but the scant cloth on his back, the sky above him was blue. Blue, beautiful and bright, that for one startling moment, he had thought himself in the company of the Lord on high.

As if atoned for his sins, brought up among the clouds in the bright, enveloping love and warmth of God Almighty.

But then he remembered the mortal flesh of man—the necessity of air, the burning agony of life as it rushed into him after the bubble of silence of heaven burst to let loose the fires of hell below.

Of the roar of the waves, the hiss of the sun, the Mute thought he would dine with demons, with the dukes of hell and the princes of Lucifer, until he saw the light of an angel.

Five summers ago, what once was Earth was made into heaven, and God’s messenger brought the dying Mute back into the light of life.

Diarmuid’s kindness was not that uncommon of a monk’s, and yet to the Mute it meant a world’s difference. The boy was by his side, breathing life into him with those beautiful doe eyes looking down at him wide with worry as the days swam like dreams across the haze of the Mute’s memory.

The boy had found him on the shores that day, and called for help from his fellow monks to bring the Mute back to their monastery for him to heal. For many a day and night, Diarmuid did not leave his side, leaving only to join his brethren in their daily prayers or for urgent chores, but it was not long until he was back by the Mute’s side, patient and kind hands easing his aches, passing him water and soothing his sleep on nights when it eluded him.

The day the Mute rose from his rest, fully healed and a brand new man, it had been the early hours of the morning. Fog still hung low around the hillside the monastery stood, and the sun’s whispered morning greetings were butterfly kisses to his skin, dancing waltzes on zephyrs, glimmering softly like pagan faerie wings.

Diarmuid was at the shores that day, searching for molluscs and little game for the monastery’s stocks. His bare feet made little to no sound over the crashing of the waves in the distance, though the trail of footprints he left behind remained generally unscathed—the tide was low, though it would approach in the coming hours. The sky was the same blue as the day they met, and though no word escaped the Mute’s throat, Diarmuid seemed to sense him, turning around to a halo of white clouds behind him, radiant and lovely as the sunrise chased away the gloom and fog in the hills overhead.

The boy gave him a smile, and he ambled over, limbs like lead in the presence of the love of God, until he fell to his knees on soft grey sand in front of him. His hands reached up to clutch at Diarmuid’s robes, but the novice didn’t seem to mind, meeting him halfway by kneeling down as well, cupping his face in his hands gently as the Mute held the boy by his neck, feeling almost unworthy of touching his beautiful face.

The boy spoke to him in Gaelic, and he wished he could understand.

(“You’re awake,” Diarmuid breathed, and there was joy in the way his voice wavered.)

He nodded regardless, as Diarmuid smoothed back his hair, smiling happily up at him as they knelt before each other, the sea soaking into their clothes, though neither seemed to mind. Diarmuid leaned forward to press their foreheads together in a soft, intimate gesture, and the Mute found himself closing his eyes, relishing the feeling as Diarmuid simply held him, quiet.

Content.

A long moment passed before the boy spoke again, pulling away as the Mute only listened, watching the way Cupid’s bow lips moved around a language unfamiliar, and thought that this could be what heaven sounded like.

There was paradise, in the promise of Diarmuid’s gentle, kind hands. A place like heaven, in his comforting gestures, a home, for a lost repentant soul like his own.

Finding Diarmuid was like heaven, he thought. Perhaps there was salvation for souls that reeked of blood, like his own.

The years passed and the Mute learned the tongue the monks spoke, Gaelic, silently obeying every task given him, no matter the difficulty or danger. Every day that he headed out, he would return home to Diarmuid, patient and kind, who taught him Gaelic, who boarded with him on days that were too cold, or on nights when the moon hid behind curtains of storm clouds as the sky fell upon them in torrential rain.

Diarmuid was home to the Mute, and they grew closer and closer with the years that passed. One always sought out the company of the other, days spent together as the Mute helped Diarmuid with his chores, and the boy attempting to help the man with his. Their nights were spent sitting together by the fire during dinner, listening to it crackle and pop as the stars shone above them like little gemstones peeking over Diarmuid’s brown locks, lighting up the world in his beautiful brown eyes.

By their third summer together, the Mute realised he loved him.

Before the monastery, the Mute was well-read. One had to be, to be as great a crusader as he was.

Had been.

In France, especially, the romantic ideal ran rampant. On campaigns, he would hear about love from swooning youths in the roadside, from the lip service prostitutes would offer in shadowed alleyways. Love was in the papers, in public letters, in newsletters and all other written words, and the Mute didn’t miss the way his fellows spoke of waiting sweethearts back at home.

It was supposedly magical, supposedly like a spark that would set of a fire that would consume your heart from the inside until smoke gets in your eyes. Left and right the world proclaimed a grandeur that could celebrate the Lord God Himself, like fireworks exploding in the darkness of the sky like a sunrise.

They said love was a gift from God, in grandness befitting His greatness, but the time he spent with the monks had taught him that exaltation was better done in the song of humility, of quietness and peace, and that was how the Mute fell in love with his little monk.

It was a quiet evening, the embers of dinnertime flames dying down into the cool wind of the night, and Diarmuid was cleaning the pit of the ashes that remained around the area.

The Mute, having been confined to his seat by his fussy little caretaker after a minor sprain he got from their chores that morning, simply watched him work. Diarmuid busied himself with raking up ash and charcoal, until it was in a little pile off to the side. The wind was mild around them, and the Mute looked off into the distance to see storm clouds approaching. Diarmuid seemed to be nonplussed, but a particularly strong gust of wind blew his little pile of ash into the air, and the boy burst into a fit of sneezing.

Little kitten sneezes punctuated the sound of the other monks’ laughter at the spectacle, and Diarmuid looked at him pleadingly as a little smile crossed the Mute’s face. Diarmuid’s embarrassment immediately dissipated at the sight of his smile—rare as they were—and smiled at him beautifully.

The Mute wished he could commit every single detail of Diarmuid’s angelic smile to memory, but instead, a revelation came to mind.

I love him, he thought, and that was that.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to admit, loving someone as wonderful and pure as Diarmuid.

Over the years, the gap between them grew smaller and smaller. The Mute could see it blossoming—a mutual flutter of hearts whenever he and Diarmuid spent their waking hours together. A lifetime ago, to the Lord he gave his life, but to Diarmuid he would offer it. It was pagan, almost, to be so devoted to one man over God, but Diarmuid had done for him more than the being he’d taken so many lives over the years.

Their relationship only grew, as Diarmuid began to lose the child-like roundness of his cheeks, blossoming into a young man with all the youth and beauty that the Mute simply knew the boy would possess.

He was angelic, truly. Not just in heart, but in body. In the scant amount of times the monastery had received visitors—friendly or not—Diarmuid turned heads. He was beautiful, a protected precious treasure by not just the Mute but the other monks in the monastery, as his collective guardians. The Mute himself had driven away those with ill intention, and all the while, he knew the little monk was spellbound by it, looking up at the Mute like the man had reached out and hung up the stars himself, just for Diarmuid.

(He would—hang the stars in the sky, pull the sun across it by the strength of his back, if Diarmuid would ask him of it.)

Instead, they settled into a routine they couldn’t do without—Diarmuid often crawled into the Mute’s sheets beside him to sleep since the Mute recovered from the brink of death, and even after that. On cold nights, on rainy nights, on nights when the little monk could hear his thrashing around to the torment of his nightmares.

Or on nights, like this one, when Diarmuid simply missed him.

The Mute wasn’t sure when it began, furtive little touches and brushes of skin that meant nothing and everything in the world, leading to intimate forehead touches, kind, warm hands cupping the other’s face during a time of turmoil.

Things escalated, as was their wont. It was only a matter of time, especially between two souls irrevocably in love with each other.

The monks raised worship to the Lord in hymns of praise from lips that only know God.

The Mute offered his own worshipful praises, to lips pressed to skin, brushing over knuckles and pink, youthful ripe-fruit bruising cheeks.

Diarmuid made lovely little noises. He was vocal, sweet and trembly as the Mute pressed kisses anywhere but his forehead. Outside the Mute’s little house of stone at the edge of their settlement, the rain roared on beyond the rickety little door. It would be freezing cold, but their company was warm, the Mute draped over his little monk underneath fur skin to keep warm.

It became a habit, kissing. To kiss and kiss the night away, peppering little butterfly-brushes over Diarmuid’s cheekbones, brushing their lips together quiet declarations of love. The boy jolted underneath him, hands shooting up to grip the Mute’s shoulders in a trembling hold, and the man looked down at him, head cocked.

“Please,” Diarmuid’s voice was shaky, breathless and breathtaking, and he looked up at the Mute with foggy, confused eyes. “I—I feel.”

The older man looked at him, waiting patiently for what else Diarmuid would say, but the boy shook his head, closing his eyes as he took deep, laboured breaths, pressing his forehead against the Mute’s shoulder.

For a moment there was silence, until Diarmuid spoke again.

“There is heat inside me,” He said, and for a moment the Mute thought his little monk was sick, when Diarmuid pulled away from him, cheeks flushed and brow sweaty, to meet his gaze. The misty haze of confusion brought about by illness was missing—the tremors that shook Diarmuid were not of chills brought by fever. There was a certain way his lips parted that felt so tempting, a faerie thrall that pulled the Mute in like the tide to the moon, and realisation sunk into the man as Diarmuid cupped his face in his hands. “I fear—I fear my vows are in danger, and yet.”

And yet, he said, and the Mute leaned down to kiss him gently.

Diarmuid let out a shaky exhale, a longing sigh escaping trembling lips as the Mute looked down at him again.

“And yet I can’t help but feel like this is right,” he breathed softly. “I love you.”

It was quiet, if a little shy. A whisper compared to the roar of the storm outside, but the Mute heard it loud like a triumphant trumpet signalling the beginning of the end.

The Mute cupped Diarmuid’s face in his hands, and kissed him. _I love you,_ whispered the press of their lips together, swallowing Diarmuid’s sigh as they pressed flush together, the Mute’s scratchy tunics hot like his skin against Diarmuid’s softer woolly robes.

“My dear friend,” Diarmuid murmured against the Mute’s lips as they parted for air. “Please, take me.”

The man pulled away from him, wide-eyed, and Diarmuid looked up at him, his doe eyes pleading.

“I know I serve only the Lord, our God in heaven, but I—” he hesitated, and squeezed his eyes shut. “But I love you. I wish for us to do as lovers do.” Diarmuid took a shaky breath.

The Mute shook his head, pulling away from Diarmuid, only for the younger man to cling onto him, desperately searching the Mute’s eyes.

“Please. I am not blind. I’ve heard of things, I’ve learned of things. I am no child.” Diarmuid pleaded. “I know what desire is. What want is.”

The Mute winced, and shook his head, pressing his hand down on Diarmuid’s chest, as if to remind him of his vows, but the boy held fast, sitting upright to grasp the older man by his arms.

“Please,” He said, “I love you. Why should the Lord allow His servants to love, only to forbid it, when it was through love that Christ saved our mortal souls?” Diarmuid leaned up to look into the Mute’s eyes, still pleading. “Is it a sin, to love so purely? To honour a gift from God and express it?”

The Mute looked at him helplessly, and Diarmuid huffed, frustrated as he threw his arms around his dear friend, holding him close. The man gingerly hugged him back, breathing in Diarmuid’s scent with a sigh as he sat back on the little mattress on the ground, holding Diarmuid close as he settled in the man’s lap.

“I love you.” Diarmuid said again, quieter, against the skin of the Mute’s temple. The Mute returned the feeling with a meaningful stroke down the boy’s back. Diarmuid shivered, and finally the Mute felt the beginnings of the little monk’s desire press against his hips, where his own arousal began to grow at their proximity.

The Mute pulled away from Diarmuid to look at him, to ask him one last time of something—anything, and the boy gave him a beautiful smile.

The same one, he realised, as the one Diarmuid gave him on the day he fell in love.

The Mute hesitated for a moment, a brief breath that was enough to make Diarmuid waver slightly, but the man shook his head and kissed him deeply. He swallowed the sound of Diarmuid’s gasp of surprise, relishing the feeling of the boy melting against him after the shock wore off, hands still clinging onto him like the Mute was his only lifeline in the middle of a storm.

The both of them moved back onto the mattress, the Mute gently laying Diarmuid down like a fragile gift that would shatter with a breath’s touch. The boy looked up at him as the Mute admired him for a moment, and gingerly pulled at the man’s hands to guide him to settle on top of him, moving the Mute’s hands down to the rope that held his robe closed.

The Mute looked at Diarmuid again, and the brunet nodded.

“I’m sure.” He said, and the Mute gave the rope a tug.

The robe was easy to remove, after that. The Mute unwrapped Diarmuid’s body slowly like unwrapping a present, his breath catching in his throat as Diarmuid’s beautiful skin was revealed to him inch by glorious inch. The little monk was by no means scrawny—Diarmuid worked on chores that were lighter than most of the monks did, but they were not so light as he would not be working hard for it. His body was lithe, youthful and sprightly, unmarked by anything, smooth like porcelain, and it made a familiar heat burn low in the Mute’s gut.

He was beautiful. So pure and untouched like an angel, and in the dark corners of the Mute’s mind, something ached to ruin him.

To mark him, to break him apart, to bring tears to those wonderful eyes—

The noise of darkness, of screaming sins and demons faded away from the Mute’s mind when Diarmuid reached up for him, twining their fingers together as he smiled up at the Mute.

“I trust you.” He said softly, emotion swelling in his heart and some spilling from his eyes. “I’m sure.”

The Mute blinked back moisture from the corners of his vision, and nodded, leaning down to kiss Diarmuid softly on the lips, before moving down the column of his throat.

To find passion in exaltation was something of a rare thing. As monks, Diarmuid and his ilk were encouraged to seek it, and for a time, to the Mute, exaltation was sung in the scream of metal against sword scabbards, in the clang of shields and the screams of dying men.

But as the seasons do, exaltation changed. Expressions of devotion shifted, and if before, the Mute worshipped God with the blood of men on his sword, now he worshipped Diarmuid with the brush of his lips.

He showered attention all over what he could reach, from Diarmuid’s fluttering pulse point to his collarbones, his heaving chest and twitching belly. The boy let out little sounds all the while—gasping and moaning, squirming at the sensation of the Mute’s beard scratching his skin. The Mute moved further down, down towards the junction where Diarmuid’s thigh met his torso, and the boy gasped, his arousal engorged and leaking beside the Mute’s head as he held Diarmuid’s hips down to keep him still.

“Oh—I—” He stammered, “This is—”

The Mute nuzzled the warm skin of Diarmuid’s thighs before he shuffled lower down the boy’s body, sitting up as he lifted his legs.

“Huh?” Diarmuid’s eyes were hazy, clouded with the desire that was undoubtedly overloading him with sensations he’d never known, and the Mute couldn’t help but admire his handiwork. The boy’s face was lax, his expression blissed out and dazed, and it looked _tantalising_ on him.

He could remember that face forever.

 _He could keep making it happen,_ a darker voice whispered in his head, and for once, he agreed.

The Mute lifted Diarmuid’s ankle and kissed the inside of it. The boy jolted, looking up at the Mute as the man slowly brushed his lips up Diarmuid’s legs, tickling the skin of his calf as he pressed a line of kisses along the inner side of his shin up from his ankle to his knee. As he moved, the Mute moved Diarmuid’s legs further apart, the boy’s cheeks growing darker with both arousal and helpless shame, and between them, his cock twitched in interest, weeping profusely as the Mute continued.

The Mute traced a burning line of kisses up the insides of Diarmuid’s thighs, pointedly heading towards his final prize, the boy’s erection now flushed pink. The monk had buried his face in his hands, whimpering and whining against his palms as pleasure shot up his spine with every scratch of the Mute’s beard against his skin, leaving it pink and angry-hot. Diarmuid was shaking, overwhelmed with sensation as his skin prickled pleasantly, the feel of the Mute’s strong hands holding his thighs open only driving him ever closer to the brink of sanity as anticipation built in his gut.

“Please—please, oh please,” He begged, though he didn’t know what he was begging for. The Mute seemed to understand, though, and finally wrapped his mouth around the head of Diarmuid’s erection, tearing a scream from the boy’s throat in time for the crackle of lightning to tear through the sky outside. The rumbling thunder and the roar of lightning drowned out the sound of Diarmuid’s pleasure from the world, but not to the Mute, the sound of it sending waves of desire down to his own straining erection, pressed against his trousers.

The older man sucked lightly on Diarmuid, driving the younger man wild as one of his hands shot down to tangle in the Mute’s hair, uncertainly holding on, not sure if he wanted to pull him down or pull him off.

The man answered his question for him, sliding down Diarmuid’s length to take him into his mouth whole, and that was enough to send him over the edge. The boy let out a whine, shuddering and squirming against the Mute’s firm hold on his hips as his orgasm ripped through him, mortified as he realised that the Mute had swallowed his release down, pulling off Diarmuid’s still erect cock with a little sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“My love,” Diarmuid panted, reaching up to the Mute, and the older man let him pull him down into a slow, toe-curling kiss. He jumped when he felt the Mute slip his tongue into his mouth, but he quickly melted into the kiss, tasting himself on his lover’s tongue as heat built in their gut, desire rising again in Diarmuid’s core. They parted for air, panting heavily, and Diarmuid cupped the Mute’s cheek in his hand. “Please,” He panted, “Take me. I want to be yours, completely.”

The Mute winced, dropping his head down against Diarmuid’s collarbone to breathe heavily, and the boy could feel the man’s arousal press against his legs. His eyes widened, and he could feel its heat radiating through his clothes. He could feel its size—how _big_ the Mute was, and Diarmuid squirmed, wiggling his hips slightly in anticipation.

“I’m sure,” he said, taking the Mute’s inaction as hesitation, but he squeaked when the man kissed him suddenly, surprisingly roughly. Diarmuid’s eyes widened for only a moment, before he completely surrendered to the power of the Mute’s kiss, letting the man completely steal his breath away as he rutted against Diarmuid’s hips, his clothes rough against the boy’s sensitive skin.

Diarmuid shivered, feeling himself drowning in their open-mouthed kisses, moaning against the Mute’s lips as the man mapped the inside of Diarmuid’s mouth with his tongue.

It became abundantly clear, after that, that the Mute’s inaction wasn’t because of hesitation. The heat that coiled between them as the Mute rolled their hips together was evidence enough—just like Diarmuid, the Mute was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with emotion, with want and _desire—_

After all, the Mute had promised.

He would do anything his little monk would ask of him. He would hang up the stars in the sky, pull the sun across it by the strength of his back, if Diarmuid would ask him of it.

If Diarmuid wanted him to take him, then the Mute would leave nothing behind.

The Mute’s hands slid up Diarmuid’s arms to lace their hands together on the mattress, pinning Diarmuid down to the bed as he pulled off the boy, panting heavily. Diarmuid was in a similar state, flushed a pretty pink and taking heavy, laboured breaths, but he was smiling, his pink lips swollen and wet curling up into a loving smile.

“I love you.” Diarmuid breathed, and the Mute smiled down at him, tucking a lock of Diarmuid’s hair behind the boy’s ear before cupping his cheek in his hand.

The Mute nodded clumsily, before pulling off Diarmuid. The monk jumped, making a move to start pulling his lover back to him, only to realise that the Mute was just taking his clothes off. Diarmuid calmed down, settling back into their cosy little nest of furs and blankets as the Mute pulled his clothes off, baring to Diarmuid his body littered with scars. Every single one was a painful memory unspoken between them, and yet Diarmuid regarded each one reverently, his eyes tracing their lightning-lines along the Mute’s muscular body as the man shed himself of his clothes until he was as naked as Diarmuid was.

He was shameless in the way he carried himself, unlike the way Diarmuid his underneath their blankets for modesty, and when he faced Diarmuid, the monk saw the man’s impressive erection, standing tall, flushed an angry red with a pearl of white heading at the bulbous head. Diarmuid squirmed in anticipation as the man returned to his side, bringing with him a little pitcher of olive oil.

Before Diarmuid could say anything, the Mute pulled him into a deep kiss, the younger man shivering pleasantly at the sensation of skin against skin as the Mute settled down between his spread thighs, his big, strong hands lifting Diarmuid’s hips to press his own flush against them. The monk gasped, throwing his head back at the sensation of the Mute’s erection sliding against his own.

“A- _ah—_ ” Diarmuid twitched helplessly, his hands shooting up to blindly look for the Mute’s, and the older man took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Oh, that’s good. That was— _nnh!_ ”

The Mute ground their hips together again, and Diarmuid flinched, his thighs squeezing the Mute’s sides as he tried in vain to close them.

The Mute leaned down to kiss his forehead to soothe him, and Diarmuid sighed shakily as the man reached down to stroke his cock, his hand slick with oil. The boy whined, bucking into the heat of the Mute’s fist, skin tingling at the sensation of the oil slowly running down from his cock. The Mute kissed him deeply as he gave Diarmuid a few tugs, stopping when the monk whined into their kiss, making an attempt at pushing him away ineffectively before reaching down to stop his hand from moving.

“Please,” Diarmuid pleaded, “Together.”

The Mute nodded, and released the boy’s cock, earning him a little sigh as he moved his hand down lower. His fingers lightly traced two lines—soft, teasing and uncertain, from Diarmuid’s cock to his entrance, earning him a little gasp from the monk as his fingers circled his entrance, as if in question.

Diarmuid met his gaze, and slowly nodded.

The Mute gently slid his oiled finger inside Diarmuid, just up to the first knuckle, and the boy took a deep, shaky breath, tensing up at the foreign feeling, and the Mute pressed a kiss to Diarmuid’s temple to soothe him. He waited patiently for the boy to calm down, to relax and get used to the feeling of fingers inside him, and when Diarmuid’s hips began to move tentatively against his finger, the Mute pressed onward, slow and steady until his whole finger was sheathed inside him.

Diarmuid let out a sigh, rocking softly against the Mute’s hand, and he laughed nervously afterwards, running his hand through his hair.

“Not too bad.” He said, but the Mute looked at him pointedly, and the monk looked down to realise that only the Mute’s finger had entered him. The older man’s cock still stood straight, stiff and slowly leaking onto Diarmuid’s thighs, and the younger man’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

There was a ghost of a pleased smile on the Mute’s face, but he went back to preparing Diarmuid, looking down at the way his finger was inside the boy. Gently he slid it in and out of Diarmuid, relishing the little strangled moan he got from him as slowly he began to thrust his finger into the boy.

When he was loose enough, he slipped in a second finger, carefully as before, scissoring them slowly to stretch Diarmuid out slowly.

On it went, as the Mute slowly opened Diarmuid up on his fingers, listening for the little sounds that escaped his little monk as he slowly opened up for him. By the time Diarmuid was loose enough, the boy was limp on the bed, panting heavily as his limbs twitched helplessly. His eyes were hazy, unfocused with pleasure as he stared off into the distance, completely lost to the sensation of the Mute opening him up.

It had taken a while, and it was like sweet torture for the Mute to see Diarmuid like this, but _oh,_ he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wasn’t going to risk hurting Diarmuid, and in a way, this was like showing his devotion to the angel that saved his life.

Penitence, as all mortal souls should observe when seeking the forgiveness of the Lord God in heaven, for a spot in His company in the Eternal Kingdom, the promised land for all the souls saved by Christ.

Heaven on earth, heaven was right here, the Mute thought, hooking his fingers to press against Diarmuid’s prostate, and the boy positively _screamed,_ his spine shooting ramrod straight. His thighs clenched against the Mute’s sides, his body jerked in alarm as clarity surged in Diarmuid’s eyes, shooting up to look at the Mute in shock.

“That—that was…” he panted, and the Mute pressed against his prostate again. Diarmuid moaned, throwing his head back as he fell limp against the Mute, subconsciously rocking his hips against the man’s thick fingers buried inside him, already achingly empty and desperate for something more.

The Mute watched him squirm and writhe, a debauched angel with tears beading at his eyes, catching on lovely eyelashes as his angel’s voice cried out his pleasure like exaltations to God. He was so _beautiful_ like this—utterly wrecked and yet still so early in their act of lovemaking, and the Mute finally realised it.

Heaven on earth was to be with Diarmuid. By his side, seeing his smiles. Between his legs, pleasuring him with fingers and cock and tongue, holding him close when he felt overwhelmed with emotion, with pleasure. Heaven was watching Diarmuid flourish, to live with him and watch him grow, laugh and live life.

Heaven on earth was to love him, and it was as close as he would get to loving God.

The Mute smiled softly down at Diarmuid as the boy struggled to calm down, gasping and panting past the tears that rolled down his lovely, ruddy cheeks, and kissed his forehead.

Somehow, through the haze of all the overwhelming sensations that made Diarmuid’s body shudder, the boy smiled back at him, and pressed their foreheads together.

“I love you.” He said, and knew the Mute felt the same.

The man pulled his fingers out of his angel, and Diarmuid took a hesitant breath as the Mute lined himself up against his entrance. The blunt head of his cock pressed up against him, and the two shared a moment, looking into each other’s eyes one final time before Diarmuid broke his priestly vows.

“I do,” He said quietly, almost like a vow of forever, and the Mute felt his chest grow tight with emotion.

 _I do,_ he wished Diarmuid could hear in the way he kissed him, before sliding his cock inside the boy.

The monk gasped into their kiss, seizing up in shock as the Mute’s thick cock breached him, and he moaned against his lover’s mouth as the stretch felt so sweet, driving him to the brink of insanity. The Mute took his time—slowly pushing into Diarmuid’s tight, wet hole, wincing at how _good_ it felt to finally be here, after _so long—_

“A- _ahh,_ ” Diarmuid’s eyes were welling with tears, his hands trembling as he reached up for the Mute, and the man let him pull him down to kiss him, languorous and deep like the way he slid the rest of the way in. His hips pressed against Diarmuid as he bottomed out, and the both of them let out twin gasps as Diarmuid collapsed back onto the mattress as the Mute struggled to keep himself above his little monk. Diarmuid was crying, overwhelmed with the feeling of being filled to the absolute brink, the pressure from it on the side of _too much_ and _not enough._ The Mute leaned down to kiss his tears away, waiting for him to adjust to his girth as Diarmuid’s sobs calmed down, and after what felt like a lifetime’s wait, the monk looked up at the older man, watery-eyed.

“I’m… I’m ready.” He said quietly, wrapping his arms around the back of the Mute’s neck. “Please…”

There was no need for other words. The Mute gently slid out until only the tip of his cock was inside Diarmuid’s little body, and then slowly thrust back in, a sweet, slow burn that made the both of them jolt as the Mute began to roll his hips against Diarmuid’s in a gentle fuck.

“Please…” Diarmuid panted, pressing their foreheads together as he locked his ankles together behind the Mute, pulling him flush against his body. “ _More._ ”

The gentleness didn’t last long.

Soon, the Mute’s thrusts into Diarmuid were sharp snaps of his hips, ramming deep into the monk’s pink hole to punch out a staccato of ‘ah-ah-ah’s from the boy. Grunting softly, the Mute angled his thrusts slightly, and— _ah._

“ _Oh!_ ” Diarmuid _screamed,_ as the storm outside swelled again to muffle his voice to the rest of the world, and the Mute couldn’t help but smile as he aimed for that sweet little spot that would drive his little angel further down into the thrall of pleasure. Diarmuid’s eyes went wide as the Mute aimed for his prostate, slamming against it with every biting thrust into him, and he clung onto the Mute for dear life, feeling his climax building again in his gut. “Oh, my—my love, kiss me—please, together—”

Who was the Mute but Diarmuid’s devoted servant?

The man leaned down to swallow the rest of Diarmuid’s cries, not too willing to share the sweet sound of his little monk’s pleasure with the rest of the world, the storm notwithstanding, and Diarmuid came between them, warm wetness spreading on his stomach and splattering on the Mute’s chest as the boy fell limp beneath him. The Mute slowed down for him, but Diarmuid shook his head, locking his legs behind the Mute again to keep him going, nodding desperately as he pulled the Mute in to kiss him again.

“Please,” he murmured between their lips. “Use me as you please.”

The Mute groaned, and did as he was told, fucking into Diarmuid’s entrance like his life depended on it, chasing his climax as it built and built—until it burst. The Mute groaned, burying himself deep into his Diarmuid as the monk winced, feeling the wet warmth of the Mute’s seed spill inside him. The man gingerly rocked his hips against Diarmuid’s as he chased the aftershocks of his orgasm, until he finally stopped, gently pulling out of Diarmuid with an almost apologetic reverence.

The monk gingerly reached down to feel the Mute’s cum sliding out of his body, and he shivered, unable to contain the little grin that crossed his face as the Mute got about to cleaning them up. He wet a towel with some water he had in a pitcher nearby and wiped Diarmuid down first, cleaning him inside and out before working on himself. When he deemed himself done, he settled down next to Diarmuid, the two of them curling up together as they always did, like nothing had changed.

Except there was so much that had changed—their intimacy, their vows—

“I broke my vow tonight,” Diarmuid murmured in the darkness of the Mute’s little home. “I… I should feel guilty, but all I feel is joy.” He turned around in the Mute’s arms to face him, their noses touching as he smiled up at him. Their chests were bare, pressed flush against each other, and it was warm and comfortable.

Like home, the Mute thought. Diarmuid was heaven, and heaven was home.

“Thank you,” Diarmuid said, and kissed him gently. “For loving me as I have loved you. For being with me to break my vows.”

The Mute considered him for a moment as the boy continued to speak.

“I pray, someday, I may come to learn your name, if you will let me.” He confessed, “But I can be patient. In time, when you are ready.”

Diarmuid broke his vow of celibacy tonight, it was only fair for the Mute to break his own vow of silence.

He leaned forward, much to the boy’s curiosity, and pressed a kiss to the shell of Diarmuid’s ear.

He whispered his biggest secret, the one he kept closest to his heart, to the one who owned it—the one person who gave him the strength to protect what mattered.

Diarmuid’s eyes widened, and he pulled away from the Mute as the man settled back in his place, looking back at his little monk with the same pleading look as the boy had at the start of their night together. The boy gaped at him for a moment, before smiling widely, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes as he nodded.

“I understand.” He said quietly, snuggling close to the Mute to listen to his heartbeat. The man wrapped his arms around his boy comfortingly as they began to slowly drift to sleep. “I will keep this secret with me, as well.”

The Mute stroked Diarmuid’s back. _Thank you._

“I love you.” Diarmuid murmured, and the Mute kissed his hair. _I love you too._

* * *

He was leaving. He was going to die on the shores, far away from him.

Tears welled in his eyes as he stopped tugging on the little rowboat desperately, Brother Geraldus and Brother Cathal not as willing to stop to check on him despite their concern for him, and Diarmuid watched the Mute walk onward, sword in hand, making a beeline for Raymond and his men.

“No,” he breathed, as Cathal gently pulled on his arm, “No!”

“Please, Diarmuid,” Cathal said, and the boy wiped at his eyes roughly, going right back to pulling the rowboat towards the water. They all clambered in, Cathal quickly ushering Diarmuid into the boat as Geraldus jumped in after them, and as they cleared the shore, the boy whirled around to look at the Mute again, almost unmindful of the way Cathal desperately fought off a knight that had latched onboard.

“Boy,” Geraldus hissed, grabbing his shoulder, but Diarmuid couldn’t stop staring at the Mute fighting on that beach—

Fighting for them—for _Diarmuid,_ to protect him, until the last breath of his life.

He couldn’t bear to see him like this. He couldn’t bear to leave him.

“David!” He screamed, tears welling in his eyes, and for a moment, the Mute looked at him over his shoulder, and there was nothing but bravery and contentment in them. Diarmuid gaped back at him, feeling all the love in the world in that singular stare, and then his world fell apart as he was pulled back to sit down on the boat, to discover the rest of his life fall apart.

Later, with the rock at the bottom of the ocean and alone with the ferryman, Diarmuid ignored the growing bruises on his throat as they rowed back to the shore. The boy ambled over, limbs like lead in the horrifying absence of God’s love, until he fell to his knees on soft grey sand by the Mute’s body on the ground. Gingerly Diarmuid turned him over, and his heart shot to his throat, emotion swelling from it to spill from his eyes to see the Mute’s chest heave, if but the slightest, and the man looked up at him with smiling eyes.

“David,” he breathed, cupping his face gently in his hands, and the man reached up to hold Diarmuid’s cheek, the brunet rushing to hold his hand, to feel it still warm, still full of life. “You’re alive. I’m going to save you.”

The Mute nodded, and Diarmuid laughed breathlessly, sobbing into the Mute’s hand.

“Please, you have to stay with me.” He said, though he knew things would be alright. “With you I found heaven, and it is all I ever needed now.”

The Mute felt the same, though he could not express it—later, perhaps, when his guts are sans Raymond’s terrible arrow, and in more pleasant surroundings.

“I love you.” Diarmuid sobbed, and the Mute thumbed his tears away, smearing blood on his cheeks.

“I love you.” He said, voice hoarse from disuse, and the monk laughed incredulously, his tears mixing with the blood on his face as he leaned down to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> god tom was so pretty in this film and his size difference with jon keeps making me go instantly feral. im honestly surprised i managed somethign this romantic when im so fuckngng horny
> 
> fun fact this fic was called strength to protect what matters on gdocs lmao


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